Gratitude
by Andrew Jankowski (July 2018)
Title Unknown, Albert Marquet
Almost bringing his case, he does not, not so much deciding as being unable in the onrush of forward movement—frantic, splintered in thought, but direct and to the purpose in action, he runs toward the sound.
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Lift your eyes and look at this man. There is no thing done that cannot be undone, and the night is coming, and the minutes when this night will come and hide you again. Let it come, brave the last remaining moments before your relief comes, and then you will sleep. Soon you will say no more and lay and look at the stars, and you will forget him and know no more the ache that he has come, when you wanted him to come. Praying as you stood there, your feet on that log. Standing on that old trunk in the dust and waiting. Praying that he would come in time.
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And yet, to speak its name—I say I do not choose it, but I choose. It comes upon me, but I choose.
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Every time I start fresh, seeking to be fresh, and begin again, a clearing is made and I begin to walk through it. And as I walk, every time I walk, there is a moment that believes, and so I begin to believe. In the knowing there is belief of another kind, but first there is simply belief, and I begin with this. But steps are taken and they lead me from simple belief to belief in what I might find. But I look toward what I might find, and there is a softness, and a satisfaction there. There, ahead, and I may almost reach it, so that now, already, I feel the satisfaction, stupidly, and without cause. Feel the satisfaction and think not of the longing, there as I repeat myself, dumbly, and with little else to sustain me.
But to share this abomination: to cast outside of me what I have earned myself. To be forgiven. To arrive at a moment of calm clarity: another safe stand from which to project rebuttals, or make new resolutions.
Enough. Did I pray for him to come, or did I hear him coming? One answer is desperation, the other stagecraft, a show I played and enjoyed. Did I want to begin again, or is the import of these theatrics darker and less worthy of forgiveness: did I merely wish to become pleased with myself through the machinations of unfelt despair?
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Reflecting, after his act of grace, the other:
He walks easily as he thinks, and he takes in the sights as breath is taken in the lungs.
Walking slowly, but steadily covering his ground, he takes in the trees even as he is thinking, so that the image and the thought form a whole, inseparable in tone and seemingly in import. The last streaks of green are paler, and yet brighter, as if calling us to pause and love the silence of the cold, the difference in the autumn air. They stand out clearly from the soft light, from the near gray sky, standing next to the deep red of the maple. Peace, true peace in the silence of the changing trees, just steps off of the high road as raindrops begin to fall.
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Pacing the aisles of the deserted church in the sweet half-light of a late October afternoon, as it passes through the stained glass and softens still further the life inside the walls, the priest grips the top of each pew as he passes them.
Outside, the clouds seem to congeal and the soft light dies down as the rain begins to fall. There is no sound appreciable when the leaves are pulled by the weight of the rain, but we imagine a dull scraping. Is there such a sound?
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Pacing still in the darkness, as the candles die out, the priest again, relentless in his mercy:
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Andrew Jankowski is a poet, satirist, and occasional journalist who lives and works in the Northeastern United States.
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